


Unfulfilled

by whimsicalwhispers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, The Golden Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2020-11-29 02:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalwhispers/pseuds/whimsicalwhispers
Summary: Three years after the Battle of Hogwarts, the trio find themselves separated and struggling in the aftermath. When Harry and Hermione are reunited after years apart, neither are where they want to be. Neither feel capable of meeting the expectations set upon them as children. Together they saved the world but can they save each other from the scars the battle left behind?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! I intend for this to be more of a character study than a long, sweeping epic. This is my first time publishing fic in over a decade but I hope you enjoy :)

For the fourth time that week, Hermione Granger found herself on her knees, cleaning sick off of a bathroom floor. She scrubbed furiously at the grout with a sponge, her fingers pruning from being wet for so long. Her neck itched but between the sick and the bleach she didn’t dare touch herself anywhere. With every stroke, the incantations skurge and scourgify flashed in her brain like gaudy neon lights. She knew the spells but she couldn’t risk using them. Her wand was waiting for her in her car but even wandless magic could raise suspicions. Being a caretaker for an elderly Muggle woman hadn’t been part of the original plan, she’d just sort of stumbled into it. Most days were tolerable, though she could never quite quiet the voices in her head, screaming that she was wasting her potential. _The brightest witch your age and you’re what? Cleaning toilets? _

A faint voice called her name from the next room.

“One moment, Mrs. Miranda, I’m nearly finished,” she called out. She took her sponge to the sink and rinsed it thoroughly. Then she hastily wiped down the sink. When she walked into the bedroom, Mrs. Miranda was sitting up in bed. A few weeks ago she might have looked sheepish, remorseful of making a mess that Hermione had to clean up, but she became less of herself with every passing day. She was just frowning out the window. 

“I need some water,” she mumbled.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione replied. She went to the kitchen and washed her hands three times before handling a cup. She wasn’t really qualified to be a nurse, she was just supposed to come and change the sheets, do the wash and make dinner. But inevitably she’d find herself administering cough syrup or holding back a client’s hair as they vomited into a bucket. She’d seen worse, much worse, and her only regret most days was that she wasn’t permitted to use magic to help them. Sure, magic couldn’t cure everything, and she had never been on track to be a true healer, but it could ease their suffering in ways Muggle medicine typically could not. 

She filled the glass with tap water, stuck a bendy straw in it and took it back to Mrs. Anthony’s room. She held the glass for her and sat at her bedside, talking to her quietly about the beautiful weather they were having - fluffy clouds and mild breeze- until the actual nurse showed up. Hermione quickly gathered her things, and then left. 

She parked her car in the lot behind her residential building but sat with it idling for a moment. The song the radio was familiar but she couldn’t place it. It had a pleasantly upbeat tempo but if you listened to the melody, to the lyrics, it was actually quite sad. She thought it was admirable that the song had the energy to pretend to be happier than it was. She couldn’t recall what that was like. She shut off the car and went into her flat.

It was a small, one bedroom, pre-war (some Muggle war, which one, of course, she couldn’t quite recall) but it was still bigger than she actually needed. The living room had a single, large, overstuffed chair pulled up against the large window facing the street. She’d placed it there for ease of reading when she first moved in, but all the books stacked around it had a nice, thick layer of dust on them now. She hadn’t finished a book in more than a year and she'd given up even trying a few months back. 

Every time she picked up a book, she got a migraine. The words on the page would blur and twist and she’d grow painfully exhausted. Sometimes, if she was lucky, there’d be no migraine, but instead she’d be stuck reading and rereading a passage until she had no idea what it said at all. Frustrated, she’d abandon the task completely. Once she’d devoured books as though she needed them just as much, if not more, than food, than oxygen to live. But now just the sight of them caused a sharp, devastating grief. Looking at her book stacks made her nauseated and so now, she avoided them. She knew she should put them in a cupboard or sell them, but the grief was too fresh. She couldn’t do it. Not yet.

For dinner, she heated up a canned tomato soup with toast and ate it standing over the counter. She didn’t have a dining table of any sort. Why would she? Who was she having over for a meal? She hadn’t met anyone since school and she didn’t keep in touch with her classmates. Crookshanks pawed at her leg, mewling loudly. She pulled some wet food out of the cupboard and let him eat it straight from the can.

Almost three years had past since the Battle of Hogwarts. It was just a matter of days until the anniversary. She’d been so relieved at the end of that battle that the war was finally over but by December of that year, her childhood full of monsters, Dark Magic and impending death had completely caught up with her. She was so used to living in crisis that she didn’t know what to do with herself now that the crisis was over. She had been no stranger to bad dreams and a nearly perpetual state of anxiety but the night terrors that had begun post -war had been unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She stopped sleeping for a while but that hadn’t been sustainable. Now, she just put it off as long as she could and let her exhaustion get her through it the best she could.

After dinner, she put her trainers on, grabbed her grubby Walkman and went out for a walk. Since she couldn’t stand to read and didn’t have a television, this was what she did most nights to pass the time. There was something peaceful about nighttime to her. There were fewer people on the streets, less noise. Being wary of what was in the shadows was a familiar sensation to her, and strangely, it was a slight balm to the unusual brand of homesickness she often felt. 

The CD in her Walkman was The Beatles’ _1_, which she’d been listening on repeat since she’d gotten it when it came out in November. She hadn’t ever listened to them much before, despite their rampant popularity, and so the music held no memories for her. It was a pleasant, sometimes whimsical soundtrack for her walks. She was just about to flip skip the song “Yesterday” when movement on the other side of the street caught her eye. She held her breath. She watched carefully as the dark shape of a man, staggered down the street in the direction she was coming from. She released the breath. _It’s just a drunk. There’s a pub a few blocks ahead. _

She walked this route every night, and so she tried to visualize the name of the pub. _The Green Apple? The White Fox? The Squat Hare?_ She couldn’t fish the name out of the fog in her mind. A flash of deep frustration flared white hot in her chest before she could suppress it. The man staggered into the glow of a street lamp. He was tall and slender with dark, unruly hair and round glasses. Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat, the familiar buzz of adrenaline coursing through her. _It’s Harry. _


	2. Chapter 2

“Harry!” she said, her voice louder than she’d expected. The man looked up and took a misstep, stumbling off the curb and into the gutter. Hermione ripped her headphones off of her ears, letting them collect around her neck and raced across the street. Her heart pumped rapidly in her ears and adrenaline intoxicated her veins. She was at his side in an instant.

The smell of whisky stung at her nose as she reached for his elbow. The man made no effort to help himself up, he simply turned his face to look at her. His lightning bolt scar shone slightly in the lamp light. His green eyes were bleary from a few whiskies too many. 

“Hermione? What are you doing here?” he said, his words slurring together despite his efforts to sober up quickly. He tried to pull his arm from her grip, but she held firm, not wanting to let him go. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen his face. _The Burrow December 1998?_ The last time they all tried to pretend they could just go about their lives again like regular people. He'd given her a beautifully illustrated herbarium from the 1600s. She'd given him a very smart pair of dragon skin Quidditch gloves. 

“I live here. What are _you_ doing here?” she asked bossily. “Last I heard, you lived in London.” 

“I could say the same thing about you,” he grumbled. He fixated on a scuff on the toe of his leather shoe before continuing in a petulant tone. “You stopped writing.”

“Only after you did. I stopped after I sent 6 unanswered letters,” she reminded him. “Come on, get to your feet.”

Harry didn’t fight her on this. He accepted her steady assistance as he got to his feet. He rolled his ankles around, making sure nothing had gotten twisted or sprained. No injury. He could feel her fingers still wrapped tightly around his arm, her eyes on his face. His cheeks flushed under the intensity of her gaze. Some things never changed.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Do you live close to here?” she asked, gesturing to the area.  
He nodded, not looking at her. He pointed down the way she’d come from.

“A few blocks that way. Red roof.”

Hermione followed his pointed finger. Her brows furrowed. _How long has he lived there? I’ve been walking in front of that building for months now. _ All this time and she could have run into him any moment. 

“Okay, let’s go.”

“What, are you going to walk me there?”

“Yes, actually I am. You’re stinking, stumbling drunk on a Monday night. I’m going to escort you home, whether you like it or not.”

She tried to meet his eye but he was deftly avoiding it. It occurred to her that he was embarrassed that she’d caught him like this. She softened. _Why do I have to be so harsh? This is exactly what Ron was talking about._

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” she added, her tone gentle. 

Harry didn’t reply. He knew there was no arguing with Hermione about anything. Well, one could argue, but one rarely would win. He took a deep breath and started walking back toward his flat. She never once let go of him since he’d fallen off the curb. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.

They did not talk while they walked and the street was so quiet he could hear “We Can Work It Out” small and tinny coming out of her headphones. 

_Life is very short, and there's no time  
For fussing and fighting, my friend. _

Harry’s lips twisted into a bitter grimace. He pulled away from her so he could open the gate to the residential building. Hermione reluctantly let go of him, but stayed close in case she needed to help keep him on his feet again. When they entered the building, he lead her up the stairs to the second floor where his flat was. Hermione was surprised when they walked in that it looked rather lived in. Appropriately furnished with a few photos on the wall even. At first glance, she saw a few photos of his parents, taken from the album Hagrid gave him, no doubt. He locked the door behind them.

“My neighbors are pretty dodgy,” he explained. She nodded, understanding completely. 

“Have a seat, Harry. I’ll make us some tea.”

Harry took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the sofa before sitting. Hermione, walked into his kitchen, which looked considerably less lived in. She wondered if he had ever once used it for anything other than boiling water in the kettle. She opened a cabinet and found it completely empty. Not a single thing was in it. She opened the next one: a couple mugs, a couple pint glasses, a single bowl. She frowned and opened the next one: a box of Chocolate Shreddies and a box of Breakfast Tea, Tesco brand. She sighed and pulled it out of the cabinet.

“How long have you lived here, Harry?”

“Six months.”

Hermione nearly dropped the box. 

“You’ve been in Sunbury for that long?” she asked, letting her voice carry as she filled the kettle. It’d been a long time she realized since she’d spoken at such a volume. It came out a bit cobwebby. She cleared her throat. “I have to say, I’m surprised you’re so close to Little Whinging on purpose.”

Harry nodded, looking at his hands in his lap. 

“Yeah well, Uncle Vernon died just before Halloween last year. Heart attack. He was a big guy, miracle he made it as long as he did really…”

Hermione stood in the doorway, not knowing what to say. She hadn’t expected him to say that. Harry had no love for his uncle, but a loss was still a loss, she supposed. She crossed her arms and leaned on the threshold. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You’re probably the only one,” he muttered miserably. “But I came back anyway, to see if there was anything I could do. I don’t know...I felt...I thought...I don’t know what I thought but they’re the only goddamn family I have, repulsive as they are.”

“That was noble of you.”

“Hardly,” he replied, bowing his head and rubbing the back of his neck vigorously. “I thought Aunt Petunia would run me off or Dudley would threaten to kick my arse if I came back ‘round. I never expected them to actually want me to help them.”

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said, stepping forward. “You’re not really here because you’re helping the Dursleys, are you? Are they taking your money? Now? After everything they put you through? After how they treated you?” 

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t really sure how he got here himself. Half the time it seemed like life was just happening to him, that he didn’t have any control over it. He hadn’t meant to be giving the Dursleys his money and at first Petunia hadn’t asked for any. At first she just wanted his help getting her affairs in order, making funeral arrangements. All the love and affection in the world didn’t make Dudley any smarter, and she needed someone who could help her. She was so distraught after all, so completely grief-ridden. That was something Harry could understand, something he could empathize with. But eventually it’d turned into asking him to cover fees here and there. Now he was giving Petunia about half his monthly paycheck to pay off some of Vernon’s debt. Apparently the way in which they had always lavished Dudley with gifts had come at a very steep cost. He told Hermione as much. 

There was something about Harry’s tone that worried Hermione. It wasn’t just that he was drunk, and his words occasional slurred together. His tone was listless. It was defeated. She wished there was something she could do. In all their years as friends, she had always felt a deep need to help Harry. _How quickly we fall back into old habits_ she thought, as she crossed the room to kneel in front of him, forcing him to meet her eye properly for the first time. His eyes were greener than usual, contrasted to the redness of his eyes from both the drink and the threat of tears. She wanted to say something to him that would be kind and maybe even a little bit clever but her thoughts couldn’t find their way to her tongue to speak. When she finally opened her mouth to speak, the kettle screamed. Hermione felt as though she came out of her skin when she jumped to her feet. 

"Goodness, that's loud."

"Sorry. Mrs. Figg gave it to me. I think she had someone enchant it so she could hear it better." 

Hermione nodded and tried to steady her trembling hands as she went to prepare the tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione settled on the opposite side of the couch from Harry, her socked feet tucked up under her. She drank her tea straight these days, unable to be arsed with sugar or cream. She watched him carefully over the edge of his chipped mug. He drank thoughtfully, as though he were really trying to savor it. She wondered if he was starting to sober up or if she would need to intervene. 

“You don’t work at the Ministry anymore,” he said. He lowered the mug into his lap and looked up at her. “Kingsley told me when I transferred departments.

Not wanting to talk about herself, Hermione seized the opportunity he had presented her with.

“You transferred departments?”

Harry knew she was deflecting and she knew that he knew because the left corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly. She gripped her mug a little more tightly.

“Yeah, I did. Over a year ago. I tried to stick it out, I really did, but...being an auror was too much...I work with Arthur now.”

Hermione nodded. She’d been wondering how Harry, of all people, was handling working in a field full of danger and action as though they hadn’t had enough of that growing up. It made sense to her that he had given it up though it surprised her to hear he was working with Arthur. _Mr. Weasley must have gotten him on there_ she thought. _Its a shame though, it’s such thankless work. No respect from other Ministry employees, a rather low salary too…._ She shook her head slightly as though to banish the thought. There was nothing wrong with working for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. It was good, honest work and it was necessary. It didn’t have to be important or flashy to matter. 

“You never answered my question,” Harry needled softly. 

“You didn’t ask one.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards at the tiniest hint of a grin. It felt good to be corrected by her again in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“I meant to,” he admitted. “Let me ask officially. Why don’t you work at the Ministry anymore?” 

Hermione shrugged, reaching down and picking at a fraying end on the cuff of her trousers. If it had been anyone else asking, she might have just deflected and then made up a reason she should leave. But it was Harry. She swallowed hard and pulled her mug closer to her chest for comforted

“I just couldn’t do it. I was sending cease and desist letters to the wrong recipients, handing over incomplete reports to internal teams and mistaking flobberworms for skrewts.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.” 

“Well it was,” she snipped. No amount of tenderness and concern in his voice could stop it from sounding like a reproach to her ears. “Brain fog, the doctor said, insomnia. The healers don’t ever talk about mental health so I went to a Muggle doctor but it was worthless because I can’t tell them anything.”

“I know. I saw one too. He flat out asked me if I’d experienced a traumatic event. I said no.”

Hermione looked up just in time to see Harry’s face break into a big, drunken smile. 

“I mean just one? If only I were so lucky.” 

They laughed. Hermione had forgotten how good it felt to laugh with a friend, their chaotic melodies mingling and interlocking. The intimacy was familiar and surprising all at once. It felt like they were falling into old patterns but they were far different now than they had been back then. Even that last Christmas, the familiarity, the friendliness had felt like only a shadow of what had come before. Barely more than an imitation. But this right here, with Harry still half drunk, felt more natural somehow. 

The laughter died down and Harry sighed. He sat his mug on the table and stretched. He could feel his drunkenness fading into a nice tipsy feeling that just blurred his edges instead of incapacitating him. If it hadn’t been for Hermione, he’d have just come home and kept drinking until he passed out. He did that only about three nights a week. He thought that since he didn’t touch a drop the rest of the time he didn’t officially have a drinking problem. He knew this was rubbish but he clung to it anyway. 

“I reckon it’s not actually very funny,” he said. “But it’s nice to be able to laugh about it.”

“It is.”

Harry looked at his watch and sat up.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“What?” Hermione blurted out. “I’m trying to sober you up!”

Harry laughed. “I know, I know, and you did a damn good job. I can now properly walk myself back to the pub.”

Hermione shook her head, watching in amused horror as Harry jumped off the couch and did a little jig to show her how coordinated he was. It was not particularly convincing.

“It’s late!”

“It’s hardly past midnight, Hermione, come on. When was the last time you had a little fun?”

Hermione chewed her lip for a moment, weighing her options. If she just went home, what happened next? Harry might go out drinking again anyway and he’d be no better off than before she’d found him. They might go another few years before seeing each other again. She sighed and stood up.

“Okay fine, but only one drink. And I’m buying.”


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione was surprised by how many people were in the pub. It was positively bustling with life. At the far end of the bar were the regulars- the town drunks who had probably been there since noon, if not before. They were the kind of potbellied, Basset Hound eyed fellows you’d expect to see in a small local pub. But they weren’t the only ones here. A group of friends a bit younger than her and Harry were crowded around a table, playing a card game that involved slapping each other on the hands and laughing gregariously at each other. A couple danced near a jukebox, clearly in the early stages of getting to know each other, all smiles and awkward laughter. A couple of older women sat at the bar gossiping to each other while sipping cheap wine. 

“Come,” Harry said, leading her to the bar. There were plenty of buffer seats between them and the other patrons that they didn’t need to make small talk with them. She took off her coat and hung it off the back of her seat. She leaned close to Harry, her lips near his ear.

“I don’t suppose they have Butterbeer,” she joked.

He smiled and shook his head, though the hairs on his arms had stood up on end at the feeling of her breath on his ear. 

“No Firewhisky either. It’s a shame.” 

They smiled at each other as the bartender walked up, a white rag tossed over his shoulder. He had very wild eyebrows but a closely shaven face.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

Harry looked to Hermione, to let her go first.

“Glenlivet, please, Neat,” she replied, reaching for her wallet. Harry reached out and grabbed her hands, shaking his head.

“I said I’d buy,” he reminded her. He turned to the bartender. “The lady has the right idea. I’ll have the same.”

The bartender nodded curtly and turned around, fingering through the bottles until he found the right one. Hermione rolled her eyes at Harry.

“_The lady? _Really?”

“I’m sorry, should I have referred to you as War Hero and Savior of the Wizarding World?” he teased. The second the words left his mouth, he regretted it. She smiled politely, but her eyes darted away. Had he learned nothing from their discussion so far? Was he doomed to spend the rest of his life with his foot in his mouth? 

“Hermione, I-” 

But then the bartender turned around, sliding their drinks to them. The bottoms of the heavy glass scraping pleasantly against the wood. Hermione was quick to pick up her glass and turned to Harry, gesturing for him to pick his up as well. She clicked their glasses together in a gentle toast.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, gently. “You’re fine.” 

Her warmth struck Harry and a lump formed in his throat. He swallowed quickly.

“To us,” he said softly, his voice barely audible over the music and laughter in the bar. 

Hermione nodded. “To us.”

They drank. 

The whisky burned hot but went down smooth. Hermione had a soft place for Scotch in her heart after touring a distillery in Scotland a few summers back with her parents after she had fetched them from Australia. It was one of the few good memories she had managed to make since the end of the war. She’d been afraid to tell her parents what she’d done. When she admitted to them that she had wiped their memories and sent them away, it was clear they had wanted to be angry. They _should_ have been angry. But as always, the Grangers loved their daughter too much to hold anything against her. They’d been so kind to her on that trip, even though she hadn’t felt she deserved it. It made her feel as though there was some hope, some chance that the fog might clear and things might be able to go back to how they were in the beginning, before they went off the rails. 

After a few more generous sips, the whisky burning comfortingly in her chest, she told Harry as much. Their heads bent close together so they could hear each other but not risk being overheard. She found she wished she had her wand with her so she could prevent eavesdropping.

“I told you they’d understand.”

“But I literally messed with their heads. I didn’t just remove memories, I tampered with existing ones, I planted new ones-”

“An incredible achievement for a seventeen year old, I might add,” he cut in. She waved him off.

“It was invasive. It was dangerous. It was...a violation. I didn’t ask permission, they had no control, no say-”

“And they lived. You saved them,” he said, meeting her eyes and holding her gaze meaningfully. “They forgave you. We all made tough choices, yours the toughest of all, I would argue, but you did it with love. You did the hard thing because you thought it was the right thing to do. Isn’t that what all parents want for their children?”

“I wouldn’t really know what parents want for their children. I don’t have children.”

Harry gave her a stern look but he knew she was just giving him a hard time at this point. She’d stopped holding tension in her jaw. Her brow was relaxed. Her cheeks were flushed. 

“You’re being difficult,” he scolded. It was an act. He was enjoying himself immensely. Even though the conversation was heavy, they were falling into familiar rhythms. 

She grinned, and went to take another drink of whisky only to find the glass was empty. She pouted, a gesture that gave away the effect the drink was having on her. 

“Who drank all your whisky?” Harry asked playfully, his own cheeks rosy and his smile quick and bright. “I guess I’ll have to get you another?”

It was a question but he wasn’t asking if she wanted another drink. He was asking her if she wanted to stay. Hermione knew this. She looked up at him, the rest of pub fading and blurring behind him as she focused on his face. Her impulse was to leave, it was what she’d been doing for years. Depriving herself of fun, not giving herself the opportunity to enjoy herself. But Harry looked so youthful when he smiled, it reminded her of good times. It’d been a long time since Harry face, whether plastered on the Prophet or in a flash of memory reminded her of good times and not bad. She pushed her isolating impulses aside and nodded.

“Yes, please. And better make it a double.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, let me know in the comments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay but come on, who doesn't love a real nice slow burn?

The second drink went down easier and a bit faster. Hermione had a nagging feeling that she shouldn’t be drinking with Harry. Earlier it had seemed as though perhaps his relationship with alcohol was not especially healthy, but with every sip it was easier and easier to block out that concern. When she made an unflattering remark about the bartender’s sideburns, Harry’s laughter had felt like a soothing balm on her heart. It felt so good to have a real conversation, to laugh, to tease, to joke. She couldn’t remember why she had isolated herself so completely.

“If I had my wand, I’d trim them up a bit for him. As a tip,” she said generously.

Harry looked up at her, his brows knitted in worry.

“What do you mean, if you had your wand? What happened to it?”

Hermione tilted her head. “Nothing happened to it. It’s at my flat.”  
This did not ease Harry’s concerns in the slightest. He leaned forward.

“You should carry it with you,” he pressed.

She shook her head and then threw back another drink of the whisky. 

“I almost never do.”

Harry looked at her as though she had said she hadn’t eaten in six months. 

“Why not?”

Hermione glared at him. 

“What do you mean why not? What has magic given me other than trouble?” she hissed back.  
Harry didn’t even blink.

“Me.”

Hermione scoffed but didn’t mean to. She bowed her head and swallowed it before it could turn to laughter. She reached for drink.

“How long did we go without speaking again?”

Harry’s frown only deepened but he waved her off.

“Still. It’s dangerous out there. You should keep it for protection.”

Hermione didn’t know how to explain the way her brain short circuited every time she tried to do a spell these days. The way the synapses connected lazily, if at all. Even if she had the words, she didn’t know if she could bear saying them out loud. This was the most she’d ever discussed her feelings in years. Whatever relief was brought by unburdening herself, was matched almost entirely by shame. And then the secondary shame for feeling shame when she knew deep down that Harry understood. He really really understood. 

She opened her mouth to reply but didn’t get a word out when they were interrupted by a rosy cheeked young woman from the loud, slapping group came up between them.

“Hullo,” she said brightly. “Would you like to join us? We’re looking for more players.” 

Harry looked around and realized they’d reached a point in the evening when there weren’t many others in the pub at all. When his eyes landed on their table, the rest of the gang smiled broadly and gestured for them to join. 

“Alright!”

“Harry!” Hermione whined. She wasn’t sure she was up for this, but he gave her a smile that struck her heart as he got off his stool and headed back to their table. She slid off her own stool and hurried after him.

“My name’s Norah,” the young woman said eagerly. Hermione had assumed she was talking to Harry until she looked up and saw the woman smiling at her instead. She tried to return the smile. They were clearly Muggles. Their clothing was right and they didn’t seem to be fixated on Harry.

“Hermione.”

“Come, have a seat.”

Hermione sat across the table from Harry and met his eyes. His smile was huge, lighting his whole face. He was enjoying her discomfort. Discomfort is a strong word, she admitted to herself. She was being uptight and she knew it. Old habits die hard.

She listened carefully while a boy with freckles gave her instructions, her brows furrowed in the middle. If she was going to participate, she was going to do it right. The rules were simple enough, though following them was designed to cause chaos. She looked back up at Harry and smirked slightly.

“Game on,” she teased. 

And she meant it. Every time the opportunity presented itself, Hermione slammed her hand down on the table. More often than not, she was the first to slap, meaning that she won the cards and thus, the points. Harry quickly found himself growing competitive. Sure, Hermione was good at everything, but this? A card game where you mostly just slap people? Ridiculous. He had to defend his honor.

He moved to the edge of his seat, his tongue tucked beneath his teeth as he concentrated. He tried to will the blurred edges of his sobriety into focus so his reflexes would be faster. He watched intensely.

_A two._  
_A six._  
_A queen._

Harry leaned forward as the next card was flipped.

_A king. _

Harry flew his hand out and smacked the table with great force, and somehow managed to be first. Hermione, came in second, her hand rapidly smacking down on top of his. Other’s trickled in, but all he could feel was her hand on top of his. 

“What combo was that?” Norah asked, pulling her hand back. She had been the last in.

“A Marriage,” the freckled boy replied.

Hermione slowly drew her hand back, blushing. She told herself it was all the drinks she had, but really it was the way Harry was looking at her. The way she could still feel the way his hand had felt under hers despite the stinging sensation in her palm. She couldn’t break eye contact with Harry even as the others scrambled around them to play some more. 

“Do you mind to scoot over a bit?” Norah asked Hermione. “I think I need more room.”

And just like that, whatever spell had fallen between them in that moment was broken. Hermione looked away, scooted over a bit for Norah and the game continued.

Less than a half hour later, the bartender did last call. Hermione looked up at Harry, startled. Was it really so late? How long had they been here? She couldn’t believe it. He laughed. How could he keep doing that? Smiling and laughing so easily? Even with the drinks it seemed like quite an accomplishment. She found herself smiling back.

“First time closing a pub down?” Harry asked on a whim.

“Yes,” she admitted.

She stepped up to the counter and quickly handed the bartender enough cash to cover both their tab and a tip and shushed Harry when he tried to argue. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He wondered if it was charity, based on what they had talked about earlier but he also knew that Hermione would have grabbed the tab no matter what. She was a good friend; kind. Generous. Lovely. 

The night air ripped through them both, tangling Hermione’s hair and causing her to pull her jacket tighter. She smiled at him as they took off back toward his flat.

"Thanks for coming out with me,” Harry said. “It was fun.”

“It was,” she agreed. “Thank you for asking me.”

She took a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill up her lungs. She was surprised to find that she felt amazing. Drunk? To be sure. But it made her feel good. Lighter, somehow. Every so often, they would bump into each other. The first time made them both giggle. This evening had started with Hermione helping a drunk Harry off the curb but now they were both too drunk to walk properly. Harry couldn’t explain it but the drunk he was feeling now felt totally different than the drunk he had been earlier. It was less oppressive and more than a little silly. 

By the third bump, they had grown accustomed to it. They chatted about absolutely nothing at all. The patrons at the bar, the cracks in the sidewalk, the ridiculous rules of the card game. Harry genuinely couldn’t remember the last time he felt this young. 

“I should walk you home,” he offered. “You already walked my drunk arse home once tonight.

“If you walk me home, who will walk you home?” she asked, bumping him intentionally. “If you walk me home, it will invalidate my previous good deed.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Yes it is.”

“How?”

“Because I said so.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“You are stubborn as a mule.”

“That’s what Ron was always telling me.” 

Harry stole a glance over at her. He’d been wondering when they would bring Ron up but hadn’t wanted to be the first one to do it. He knew they had been together but now they were not and he wasn’t at all sure what the exact circumstances had been. He wasn’t sure how fresh those wounds were.

“Do you two still...keep in touch?” he asked cautiously.

Hermione pressed her lips together and shook her head. She didn’t think of Ron as a wound. It was more complicated and less painful than all that. It was more of a regret. _No, that’s not it. I don’t regret him. It just didn’t workout._

“No. Do you? Keep in touch?”

Harry shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Only a little. Last we talked he had just moved to Romania. He’s working with Charlie now. Did you know?”

Hermione looked up, surprised. She shook her head, she hadn’t known.

“Yeah, well, from the sound of it, he really likes it there. I think it’s done him a lot of good, you know, to get out there and really do something challenging and be good at it.”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched up slightly and Harry wished he hadn’t said anything.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to talk about him, I-”

“No, no,” she insisted, looking up at him. “It’s fine. I promise. I’m happy for him. Truly. There’s no hard feelings between us, at least not on my end. It just...we just….” she searched desperately for what she wanted to say, her hands grasping at air before she finally settled. “Couldn’t.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He knew Ron didn’t have any hard feelings but found himself not really wanting to tell her this. This selfishness surprised him and flushed guiltily as he turned away.

Hermione looked over just in time to see the back of his head. She frowned.

“We were never going to work,” she explained. “Not forever. All we do is bicker and that gets exhausting. I care about him with all my heart and I love him very much but ultimately I don’t think I was in love with him. I think even if things hadn’t gotten so hard after the war we still would have broken up. I just think it’s sad that we don’t get to be apart of each other’s lives anymore.”

Hermione reached out and grabbed Harry, pulling him closer so they could link arms.

“I used to think that about you too. But look where we are now.” 

Harry turned to look at her again and the street lamps backlit her just right so that the edges of her hair looked like a halo. He smiled. 

“Look where we are now,” he agreed. He looked around and chuckled when he saw that they were, in fact, outside his flat now. She giggled with him and for a long while they just stood there. It was terribly late but they hadn’t seen each other in years and neither one of them was ready to walk away just yet. Hermione didn’t know why she didn’t just open her mouth and say goodnight but she just couldn’t. It had been too long since she felt this way.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” he replied, far too quickly.

“Do you want to invite me up again?”


	6. Chapter 6

Harry cocked his head to the side like a curious puppy. _What is she asking, exactly?_

“It’s past four. Don’t you have work tomorrow?” he asked.

Hermione shrugged. “Not for about 12 hours.” 

She was surprised by how badly she needed him to say yes. She couldn’t bear the thought of going home to her empty flat and crawling into bed with Crookshanks, alone. Feeling this good, this _alive_, was rare for her these days and she wanted to ride the wave as long as she could. No matter how much fun they were having, she knew there was no guarantee that they would wake up in the morning and anything would be different than it had been. They’d just go back to their quietly miserable lives. The drinks were really starting to settle in her now, the world was buzzing comfortingly. 

“Please,” she whispered. If it wasn’t for her breath fogging in the cool air, Harry might not have known that she had spoken at all. 

Harry couldn’t find his voice so he nodded and dug in his pocket for his key and let them back up to his flat. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as they climbed the stairs and walked down the hall. Usually he used drinking to numb his feelings but tonight they seemed to only amplify them. 

He let them into his flat, locking the door behind them.

“So,” he said, trying to break the tension he felt building as he crossed toward the kitchen, unbuttoning his jacket. “Tea?”

Hermione hummed in agreement but she followed close behind him, tossing her own jacket on the sofa as they passed it. While he filled the kettle, she started opening all of his cupboards. 

“What are you looking for?” he asked with a laugh. 

She furrowed her brow in concentration as she kept looking.

“You need to buy more stuff.”

“Stuff? Yeah...you’re probably right. I guess I just never thought I’d stay here.”

“Still...”

“If you’re looking for snacks, I’ve only got cereal and some cheese.”

Hermione cackled. The laughter that burst from her seemed to surprise her every bit as much as it surprised Harry. She brought her hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, laughing. “But that’s ridiculous.”

Harry shook his head and leaned on the counter. She was probably right. He watched as she continued her search. She let out a triumphant cheer when she finally found what she was looking for. _Scotch._

She grabbed the bottle out of the cupboard and wiggled it at him. 

“To put in the tea.” 

“How did you know I had scotch if you saw all the cabinets were empty?” he asked, his words slurring. 

She rolled her eyes and walked up to him so that their noses were only an inch apart. He held his breath, his eyes dropping to her lips that were pressed into a determined smirk. Before he had time to process, Hermione reached around him, snaking her hand into the back pocket of his trousers. He let out an involuntary gasp as she ripped something out of his pocket. It was his flask. She took a step back and held the flask up between them.

“You’re a drunk,” she said matter-of-factly. 

Harry felt this statement like a punch in the gut. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She had practically found him in the gutter earlier this evening anyhow. He searched her face and as his eyes scanned over her, her smirk faded. She hadn’t meant to come off as cruel but now she realized she had quite literally got in his face to insult him. She blushed but didn’t back down.

“I should pour this down the drain and lecture you about making better choices…” she said, trailing off, thinking. 

Harry’s breath hitched in his chest. She was so close he could smell the Glenlivet on her breath. He nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. Had he ever been this close to her? Surely he had. Obviously he had. But it felt different now. 

“But we can worry about making better choices tomorrow, yeah?” she replied, unspinning the top of the flask and taking a swig. She cracked a grin that was so infectious that Harry couldn’t help grinning too. She was drunk. Like good and properly drunk and he had never seen her like this before. She laughed and swayed on her feet and he reached out, grabbing her by the elbows to steady her. 

“Yeah...but maybe you don’t need any in your tea,” he said with a chuckle, taking the flask from her and setting it on the counter. 

“Spoilsport,” she pouted. 

Harry’s eyes drifted to her lower lip. It looked so soft and sweet and he wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss it. He blushed. Kissing her was likely a very bad idea. She was one of his oldest friends but they’d spent too much time apart. It would be a mistake to cross that boundary tonight. _Or ever,_ he chastised himself. _Don’t risk this. You could be friends again._

But when he looked back up at her, she was looking down at his mouth. Hermione reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. All she could think about was the specific way her heart had ached when she’d first seen him that day. It had felt remarkably like homesickness. But then he’d smiled at her that first time and it had felt like coming home for the first time after a long time away. Just as she summoned the courage to lean in further, the kettle screamed and they jumped apart. 

Harry quickly turned his back to make the tea, grateful for a reprieve from the almost unbearable tension that had been building between them. He might not have been able to stop himself if the kettle hadn’t gone off at just the right time. Hermione, too, took a step away, taking a deep breath. The drink had really gone to her head. Did she really want to kiss him? Relieved as she was that they’d been interrupted, she couldn’t quiet the nagging voice in her head that kept repeating _”You do want to kiss him. You do. You do. You do.”_

She tried to pull herself together while his back was turned. The last thing she wanted to do was make an arse of herself and ruin the good time they were having. They were absolutely rekindling something but it was probably best to just let that be their friendship. She had so few of those these days. She needed to be more careful.

By the time he was finished preparing the tea, they had both compose themselves. She took the cup and looked into it. It still needed time to seep fully but she liked the way it smelled. It was subtle but comforting. Harry gestured for her to lead the way back into the living room, grabbing the flask off the counter before leaving. He had a feeling he might need a bit more before the night was over.

Hermione took her seat on the sofa but this time Harry took a seat on the sofa too. He leaned over and poured a bit of scotch from his flask into her cup and then did the same for himself.

“We’ll worry about making better choices tomorrow,” he said with a wink.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience!

Suddenly, Hermione’s cup was empty. She did not quite remember taking the last drink and draining her cup. She was also laughing but couldn’t quite remember what was so funny. She looked up. Harry was laughing too. What were they talking about? Something funny, obviously, but the specifics were fuzzy. Something about troll bogeys. She laughed again and sat her cup clumsily on the floor. It toppled over.

Harry bent down to catch it before he realized it was empty. Their fingers collided, grasping each other as well as the cup. Their laughter quieted. Harry’s unruly hair was too long and badly needed a trim as it was falling into his face, covering his scar and getting in his eyes. Unthinking, Hermione reached out and pushed his hair out of his face, uncovering his eyes. _His eyes are still laughing _ she thought, which made her smile. His hair was soft and thick, if not maybe due for a wash, but she let her fingers linger, sliding gently across his scalp. 

His breath caught in his chest. All he wanted in the world was to close the gap between them and kiss her. The intimacy they shared as two people who knew each other better than anyone else in the world was an absolutely intoxicating counterbalance to the mind-numbing loneliness of his current, day-to-day life. The voice in his head telling him to back off, to preserve the friendship, to give their relationship room to breathe, room to heal, room to settle back into what it had been before grew faint. Another, louder voice drowned it out. _Act now. Who knows where you’ll be tomorrow. She might walk out that door tonight and you’ll never hear from her again. Just like last time._

And so he reached up, slipping his own fingers into the thick weave of her hair, cupping her head in his hand. His eyes locked with hers and in them he saw his own reflection. All that longing and fear and hunger for connection, for touch was in her eyes too. He leaned in and kissed her. Her lips were warm and soft and delicious. Without hesitating, Hermione leaned into it, slipping her hand down to his neck, holding him against her. She didn’t think about tomorrow or consequences. How could she? The present was so sweet. Her lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip through. They tasted each other with caution. Though they both tasted like whisky and a hint of tea, they each found the other exhilaratingly delicious. 

Hermione moaned into his mouth. It had been too long since she’d been kissed and she couldn’t help but think she hadn’t ever been kissed quite like this before. The urgency was invigorating but the way Harry had her head cupped in his hands, the way he had looked at her for permission before leaning in, it all had such sweetness and tenderness in it that she could hardly bear it. And yet, she wanted more. The distance between them, however small, felt boundless. Hermione placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the sofa. She meant to lower herself gracefully on top of him, but her drunkenness caused her to slip, falling on top of him with more force than intended. 

With their lips pressed together, Hermione laughed. Her previous moan might have sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, but her laughter sent electric sparks. Harry had never laughed while snogging a girl before but if anyone asked him about it tomorrow he would say it was the best feeling in the world. It was somehow both cute and sexy in a way that was completely and utterly irresistable. He kissed her again, and again, and again. And she did the same. 

She wasn't sure how long they spent tasting and feeling each other. Eventually, once she had forgotten everything in the world but him, she slipped her hands to the bottom of his shirt. After feeling how hot and delicious his skin felt under her finger tips, she quickly went to work on his buttons. When she finally reached the top button, she pulled back and met his eye. She wasn’t sure what to say because she wasn’t sure what was going to happen. She didn’t know if they should talk about it or not, but right now, all she wanted was to get him out of his shirt. She wanted to be even closer, to feel his warmth pressed tightly against her.

Harry watched her, fascinated as she pushed his shirt open, her soft hands roaming across his chest and up to his shoulders where she then dragged it down his arms. He only had to wiggle a little to help her remove it entirely. She grinned at him and pulled the hem of her own shirt up and pulling it over her head. Despite their mutual drunkenness, she blushed. Harry thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He reached up, sliding his fingers up her skin, letting gooseflesh rise in its wake until he reached the clasp of her bra. His fingers were clumsy but he took his time and without too much delay, he unclasped it. He slowly pulled the straps down to reveal her breasts.

Hermione’s blush deepened and she grew very still. Things between her and Ron had not been entirely wholesome and innocent. They’d kissed and snogged and groped each other in the dark, but they hadn’t actually done much more than that. And never with the lights on, never unclothed. Never like _this_. She did her very best not to shy away and to forget about her scars and the barely visible slur carved into her arm. The liquid courage was helping to keep her strong, but she knew it was only giving her the strength to do what she really wanted to do. She wanted this, whatever it was. Harry Potter was looking at her as though she were some kind of miracle and she couldn’t believe how good it felt. The only feeling that was better was when he ran a thumb tenderly across her nipple.

Hermione closed her eyes and tilted her head back, soaking in the pleasure. Is this what she had been missing? It was hard for her to remember why she’d locked herself away all these years when being like this with Harry - sensual, warm and at peace- was so incredible. She leaned down to kiss him again, pressing their bare skin together. The thinking parts of their brains shut down completely. Their kisses grew hungrier, their groping more frantic. Before they both knew it, they were down to their underwear in a passionate, tangled embrace. 

Breathless and panting, Harry pulled himself from the kiss and brought his lips to her ear. He nipped slightly at the lobe and she shivered in his arms. He tried not to think too hard about anything. If he started thinking too much, he would ruin everything. He didn’t really know exactly what he was doing, but his instincts hadn’t let him down yet so he decided to keep going. Taking a deep breath, Harry slid his hand slowly down the front of her knickers and stopped abruptly when he felt her stiffen in his arms. He did not remove his hand but he did lean back enough to look at her.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, his words soft and slightly slurred. 

Hermione shook her head. Her blush burned bright through her freckles. 

“No! No, it’s just...I haven’t…”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted. She hasn’t? He had assumed she had. A rush of relief washed over him. He wouldn’t have minded either way, but it definitely took some of the pressure off. He smiled bashfully.

“Me either.” 

She grinned and giggled softly. She hadn’t expected that either. She lightly traced a circle on his bicep with her fingertip. There were many rational reasons why they should stop now and regroup tomorrow. Her eyes dropped to his hand, still poised delicately in her knickers. She tried to imagine what tomorrow could look like. _ I could text him in the morning. We could go to dinner over the weekend. We could start over...._ She swallowed hard and then gently pushed his hand down farther. Maybe tomorrow was real but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe right now was all they were guaranteed. 

With a gentle flick of his finger, Hermione melted. He stayed close to her, using her sighs and moans as a guide. It didn’t take him too long to learn what she liked. Every sound he worked out of her sent a strong shock of desire through him. This was the closeness and intimacy he had been craving for who knows how long. Soon, she was so slick that his fingers slid just ever so slightly inside of her without him planning it. She gasped but he moaned. He hadn’t known how thrilling it could be to just feel her, let alone please her. Hermione Granger, the girl who had always been very reserved and careful and measured was here in his arms, gasping in delight, her freckled cheeks flushed and her mouth swollen from snogging. 

“Again,” she whispered. 

“Again?” he asked, running his finger around her opening but never entering. She writhed beneath him, her hips lifting off the couch.

“Please,” she whispered fervently. “Please, please, please.” 

He circled only for a second more before slipping inside her again, slightly deeper this time. She groaned loudly, utterly without abandon. She felt nearly mad with desire.

“More,” she begged, leaning forward to kiss him. “Please.”

He couldn’t stand it when she begged and so he gave her exactly what she asked for. He slowly pulled his finger out and then plunged two in instead. She cried out and he was afraid he had hurt her but when he looked at her she was smiling. He couldn’t explain it but he was just as ecstatic as she was. Pleasing her pleased him. And as if feeling this too, Hermione reached out and touched him.

She grabbed his cock in her hand and just held it for a moment, feeling it throb in her fist. Harry inhaled sharply. She slightly tightened her grip around it, going only on instinct. He practically whimpered. Together, they fumbled about, trying to discover ways to please each other. Their efforts were largely successful. Harry was quite sure that the only reason he hadn’t gone over the edge yet was the large amount of whisky he had consumed over the course of the day. He would have to write Glenlivet a thank you letter.

And then their eyes met for a long moment, asking each other silently if this was really going to happen. It was. There was no denying it. It was inevitable. _They_ were inevitable. 

Hermione wiggled out of her knickers and pulled him down to her. Their mouths met passionately as they frantically kissed and nipped at each other. When neither could stand it anymore, he rested his forehead sweetly against hers and let her guide him slowly inside of her. The sensation surprised her but she did not feel any pain. They lost all sense of time and self and just when all the lines were blurred and she didn’t know where she ended and he began, the pleasure blossomed and bloomed leaving her trembling and shaking beneath him. 

Harry collapsed on top of her, breathless and euphoric, resting his head on her heart. It thundered wildly in her chest. She brought a trembling hand to his head, running her fingers lazily through his hair. They didn’t say anything for a while, they just drifted in and out of sleep. Suddenly remembering, Harry fumbled around for his wand, lost in the cracks of the sofa and performed a cleansing and contraceptive spell. 

Hermione spoke without opening her eyes.

“Good boy,” she whispered, patting him softly on the head.

Harry laughed and his laughing made her laugh and so they laughed together, which to him, might have been the best part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was worth the wait!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! I was already in a writing slump when the pandemic hit and that certainly didn't help. But today, the sun was out and the breeze was comfortable so I sat on my porch and wrote this for you.

When the morning came, no one was laughing. Hermione woke with a splitting headache and a mouth as dry as the Sahara. She tried to swallow but it was a futile gesture. She groaned slightly, feeling overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Her skin was hot and clammy, her heart racing. She was completely and thoroughly hung over. She went to roll her body off her bed but realized it was not a blanket that covered her, nor was it her bed she was sleeping on. She popped her eyes open.

_It’s Harry_ she realized. He was also hot and clammy and most definitely naked. Memories of the night before came to her in bits and flashes. She clapped her hand over her mouth as her stomach lurched._ I’m going to be sick._

She crawled out from under him as carefully as she could, though her fears that she might wake him were unfounded- he was fast asleep. Without stopping to grab her clothes, Hermione rushed through his flat in search of the loo and found it just in time to vomit in the only appropriate place to do so; the toilet. As she emptied her stomach, flashes of the night before came more sharply into focus. Tears stung at her eyes from retching. She rinsed her mouth in the sink and fumbled around his things for toothpaste. It was capless with wasteful hardened globs around the mouth. Harry had never been particularly tidy. She sighed and cleaned off the tube and brushed her teeth with her finger.

Had she really done all those things the night before? Drank all that whisky? Shared all those secrets? Gotten naked with her only friend? Hermione clapped her hands over her face and took deep, trembling breaths. _You’ve ruined everything, you stupid, stupid girl_ she punished herself. With great effort, she pulled herself together and peeked out the bathroom door to see if Harry was awake. He was not. She rushed out and gathered her clothes. This was something other girls did. Other girls got drunk and lost their virginity to their estranged best friend on their second hand couch in the middle of the bloody living room. Not her. Tears dripped off her cheeks as she struggled with her shoes. 

She couldn’t bear the thought of Harry waking up before she left. What would she say to him? What would he think of her? _How far the mighty Hermione Granger has fallen! She lost her brilliant brain, her knack for spells, her purpose...she doesn’t carry a wand anymore, she barely holds a job and she falls into bed - no, couch- without any regard for anyone. _

Holding back tears, she fled out the door. When Harry came to, less than an hour later. She was long gone. 

_Shit_ he thought frantically, shoving himself into last night’s clothes. His head was throbbing and he was very dehydrated but he was used to that. Hermione hadn’t been wrong- he _was_ a drunk. Most of the time he liked to think of himself as simply having an unhealthy relationship with alcohol but he wasn’t going to give himself the benefit of the doubt right now. He clearly wasn’t remembering something about last night. Sure, he thought things had been great. He thought him and Hermione had genuinely connected. They had talked and flirted and things had progressed naturally. She had wanted to kiss him. She had asked him to keep going. She had begged him not to stop….right? Or was that just how he wanted to remember it? Maybe she hadn’t wanted it at all, maybe he had misread her entirely. _Maybe…_

He stopped and ran his fingers through his hair, remembering the feeling of her delicate fingers on his scalp. He sighed heavily. The only way he could fix this would be to talk to her. If he did something wrong, he wanted to apologize, if he had misread signals… It hurt to even think about. His memories were solidifying and he felt overwhelmed with homesickness. 

He fished through the pockets of last night's trousers looking for scraps of paper, hoping he had gotten her number. No scraps of paper to be found. He then rushed to the pad by the phone in his kitchen. Her number wasn’t there either. How had he gone an entire evening without getting her number! He groaned. Getting in contact with her again would require a little more effort. He wasn’t even sure where she lived or where she worked. Had she given him any clues? Surely she had…. _Think Potter….Think!_

He came up with nothing and decided the only way forward was to take a break, reset, evaluate his options. He took a shower so hot it left him pink and raw and he formulated a plan.

Still damp from her own shower, Hermione dressed for work. Scrubs with trainers. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail despite the fact it wasn’t quite dry. It stuck to her fingers as she tried to wrangle it. Tired as she was, she was grateful for something to do. The last thing she wanted to do was sit in her flat and stew over last night. She remembered almost all of it. She supposed it was a good thing that she hadn’t actually blacked out, but what she remembered embarrassed her. She’d been so forward and reckless. 

Before she left, she stopped at the door and checked her pockets. She had some change, her ID, and her keys. She looked over at the side table where her wand sat in a drawer. She chewed her lip thoughtfully before quickly retrieving it. She stashed it in her deepest pocket without looking at it too closely and hurried out the door for work. 

Mrs. Miranda had been quite ill all morning, according to her nurse and she needed her rest. The old woman slept soundly, and Hermione set off to make herself useful in the kitchen. She took the dishes from the drying rack and sat them in the cupboard. She wiped out the microwave. She wished she had her walkman to listen to but it was important that she be able to hear Mrs. Miranda calling. When she walked she could feel her wand brushing her leg in its pocket. Usually, she fought hard to avoid thinking about magic but now it was the only thing keeping her from dwelling on the previous night. She decided to list useful spells she knew alphabetically.

_Accio, to summon things_

_Aguamenti, to conjure clean water_

_Alohomora, to unlock_

_Bombarda, to make a small explosion_

She grinned slightly, realizing she had listed it as useful. _Bombarda is dead useful, _ she argued to herself. _Sometimes the smallest, simplest spells can be the most useful. Expelliarmius saved Harry’s life numerous times. _ She sighed and tossed her rag into the sink. It was no use. Her thoughts were always going to go back to Harry. Everything always did. Or seemed to anyway. 

_So what now, Granger?_ a voice inside her said. It sounded a bit like McGonagall, as most of her critical thoughts did. It was always pushing her to be better. _You can’t run forever._

Hermione clenched her jaw stubbornly. _Why not?_ she wondered. _Why bloody not?_

It was late when her shift was over and most nights she either stopped at the chippy on her way home or had soup and toast but tonight she figured she needed something a little more engaging. She stopped at a shop that was still open and got a package of pasta, a jar of red sauce, an actual garlic bulb instead of the powdered variety. It wasn’t much. There was a time when she might have actually enjoyed the act of making her own sauce, treating the dish like a potion but the basics was all she trusted herself with.

Once home, she put a pot on the burner to boil and set about peeling and mincing the garlic. The smell was strong but comforting. There hadn’t been a fresh vegetable in her kitchen in many months. She rarely felt like putting in the effort, but tonight, something as basic as mincing garlic was helping keep her hands busy and her mind from wandering too far. 

She portioned out the pasta and put it in the water, setting a timer. She didn’t trust herself to keep track of the time on her own. Last time she’d tried to cook something at home, she’d gotten distracted by her neighbors shouting about and burnt it to a bloody crisp. Completely inedible. When it came time to open the jar of sauce, however, Hermione was completely at a loss. She tried to twist the cap off but it wouldn’t budge. She cautiously tapped it on the edge of her counter, worried she might break the jar or her obviously cheap counter top. It made no effect. She felt like an idiot. How completely disempowering it felt to be unable to open a simple jar of pasta sauce! She could knock on her neighbor’s door and ask him to do it. He was a plumber or a contractor of some kind. He’d fixed her leaky tap once. _Or…_

Her wand felt like it was burning a hole in her pocket. She chewed the inside of her cheek. There was no real harm in trying it. Even if she accidentally blew up the jar instead of opening it she could just make buttered noodles instead. No one would have to know. Gathering her courage, she whipped her wand out of her pocket, took a deep breath and did the spell before she could talk herself out of it. The bottle trembled for only a moment before the lid popped off and sat itself on the counter top. Hermione stood there, wand in hand, smiling from ear to ear until the timer went off.

The distraction did not last for long. When it came time to go out for her nightly walk, she decided against it and made a cup of tea instead. Crookshanks crawled into her lap, sensing that she was distressed. Despite her best efforts, when Hermione tried to go to bed that night, her thoughts were still a jumbled mess. Spells raced through her mind. _Fiendfyre. Finestra. Finite Incantatem._ Interrupted only by the sound of Harry’s laughter and the feeling of his lips on her skin, the taste of his kiss, the way he felt inside her. She brought her pillow down over her face and groaned. The memories embarrassed her, to be sure, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst part was how much it excited her and how badly she wished to be able to do it again.

She didn’t sleep a wink that night. Neither did Harry. He simply retraced their steps, hoping to run into her again. He sat on the curb where she had first found him until sunrise peeked above the trees and the birds began to sing. Having no choice but to admit defeat, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and went home. He did this four nights in a row. Completed his day time routine and then sat on the curb, waiting to catch Hermione on a walk. Sometimes he even went into the pub to look for her. He knew he wasn’t likely to see her at the pub, but it wasn’t like she was walking by the curb either. Maybe it wasn’t her usual route. Maybe she wasn’t going on walks at all. He hated the thought that maybe he’d upset her so badly she’d changed her entire routine. How could he make it up to her? How could he apologize when he couldn’t find her? He had considered buying a new owl and sending it out everynight in search of her but he doubted she would appreciate having to explain to her muggle neighbors and employers why an owl was stalking her and that was if it worked at all. A new owl wouldn’t know a thing about her. It would be seen all over town in search of her. Not for the first time, he missed Hedwig miserably. 

The fifth night, he sat on the curb watching the sunrise and decided this was the last time he was going to come wait for her. He had to make peace with the fact that she was not coming. He would have to try and find her another way. He got up from the curb and walked home, his mind formulating other plans. Perhaps the next night, when he was sure she would be home in her own flat, he could send her a message with his patronus. The stag would surely find her, he would only have to ensure that she was not out in public or in front of muggles. He was pretty sure he could time that appropriately. Maybe send it to her in the middle of the night. The only problem was he hadn’t attempted a patronus in years. The last time he had it had been a weak, wispy thing. He had happy memories, he was able to recall them but they struggled to fill him with actual joy. His happier emotions often felt just out of grasp. But, he was determined to try. There was little he wouldn’t do for Hermione. She had always done everything she could for him, and he was going to do the same now. If he had been wrong, and there was no romantic spark between them, then it would do it for their friendship sake. He’d been wrong to let their friendship fade into the background. He knew that now and he was going to make it right, however he could.

When he got home, he locked the door and then immediately put up a muffling charm. He knew better than to try this spell silently after all this time. He didn’t have a boggart or a dementor but he had learned to do it without one once, he knew he could do it again. He just had to focus. 

Harry stood in the middle of his living room and adjusted his grip on his wand. He took a deep breath and found a happy memory. 

“_Expecto Patronum_ he pronounced, his voice a slightly stronger and louder than normal. A wisp of smoke was procured but little else. He tried again, a different memory, his voice a little louder than before. He tried it several times, to varying degrees, but was not particularly successful. Every happy memory from school was tainted now. Even his parents. His earliest memories were replaced by seeing them with the resurrection spell. It had hardly been a happy and joyous moment, though it had certainly been comforting. He’d gotten a stag only by thinking of him, Ron and Hermione laughing with Christmas crackers, maybe in their fifth year. It wasn’t strong enough to send a message, but it was a step in the right direction.

He took a deep, steadying breath and looked around the room, grounding himself in the moment. He needed to dig deeper within himself. The memory was important, to be sure, but he had to be confident. Confidence was key. His eyes landed on the couch and he was flooded with memories of him and Hermione talking, kissing, fumbling with buttons, stroking, panting and laughing.

He closed his eyes and thought of Hermione, lying naked beneath him, laughing softly as she pet his hair. He thought about how it felt to be there, in that moment: totally spent and safe and relaxed. 

“_Expecto Patronum!_” 

When he opened his eyes, there was his stag. Tall, proud and solid enough to touch. 

"Hello again, old friend," Harry said softly. The stag bowed its head. It understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you are safe and comfortable. We are all in this together.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world is a goddamn mess right now. You're doing great, though. You've got this.

Hermione couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since that night out with Harry and that’d been over seven nights ago. She tossed and turned, fluffing her pillow, sticking a foot out from under the quilt and then popping it back under again. _I shouldn’t have just walked out on him. I should have said something, I should have left a note…_ She let out a deep, agonizing sigh. Half the time she beat herself up for doing it at all and the other half she beat herself up for walking away. She had never been this indecisive or this insecure in her entire life. She’d had her moments, sure, but this feeling now was eating her alive.

She sat up and wandered into her bathroom. Her hands felt dry and itchy as they often did after a long day of cleaning and scrubbing someone else’s house. There was nothing wrong with being a caretaker, it was necessary, it was helpful but it was hard. She pumped lotion into her palm and massaged it in, trying to find something relaxing about the ritual. She did not want to feel shame about her job, she hated that there was a little snobby voice inside her, the voice of her sixteen year old self that chided her for wasting her life. But Hermione had long since adjusted to the fact that just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean it stops happening. Recognizing you had a problem was certainly the first step but what was the second? What was the third? It was too much. It overwhelmed her to think about. 

_You can’t keep living like this, Granger,_ the voice in her head begged. She looked up to see her own reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t turned on the light, but she could see her features well enough. She felt old, but she looked young. Life had been too hard, too unforgiving, too dangerous for far too long. But still, she had never wanted to be someone who would give up. _Where is your bravery?_ she asked herself. _Where is your courage_

She rushed out of the bedroom toward the front door. She slipped on her trainers and grabbed her jacket, pulling it on over her pajama bottoms and oversized t-shirt. She so seldom felt the motivation to do anything that on the rare occurrences when it fire inside her would ignite, she had to act quick to take advantage of it. If she let it burn out there was no telling when it would light again.

Her heart pounded in her chest and echoed in her ears. Each step felt terrifying and exhilarating. What was she doing? What was her plan? She didn’t know exactly, but she couldn’t keep doing what she’d been doing. She needed change. There was so much life left to live. It wasn’t fair that she lost everything but the war itself. She wanted to take back at least some of what she’d lost. Something was better than nothing, something could at least attempt to fill the hole inside her that felt as though it deepened every single day.

Before she knew it, her feet had brought her to Harry’s residential building. Someone had propped the front door open with a rolled up piece of newspaper and she took it as a sign that she had to keep going. She had to keep walking. One foot in front of the other. As she passed his neighboring flats there was an occasional voice or tinny hint of music from behind the doors but no one was in the halls, the air was very still. It was quite late, most people were probably sleeping. Harry was probably sleeping. And this was the thought that struck her before she could bring herself to knock on his door. Her doubt and insecurity crept in again. _What if he thinks I’m mad? What if he’s cross with me? What if he regrets what happened and never wants to see me again?_

An old stubbornness flared inside her, it’s familiar determination blooming in her chest. Who was this voice inside her that was so cruel to her? It wasn’t her own, she knew that much. It might sound like her, but it wasn’t her. She couldn’t let it be her, not anymore. Why was she punishing herself? What was the reason? Maybe a younger, more naive Hermione would have been upset about not having all the answers, but she wasn’t that naive little girl anymore. Sometimes not having answers is okay. She took a deep breath and pounded her fist on his door. 

Harry checked his watch. It’d been approximately five minutes since he had sent his Patronus. It was too soon to expect any kind of response but he was feeling anxious. It was probably very stupid of him to have sent it from the curbside instead of from within his flat. He could no longer remember why he thought it was a good idea to send it from outside. Sure, it was the middle of the night and over the course of his nights spent out here waiting for Hermione he had almost never seen any pedestrians, but this was a muggle neighborhood. What if she sent one back?

What if she didn’t?

Another ten minutes passed. Nothing. 

_Well she was always more clever than you, she wouldn’t send a Patronus, she’s going to come meet you on the curb, just like your message requested. She wouldn’t send a Patronus even if she was going to reject you. She’d come here. Or send a letter to your flat or…._

He swallowed hard.

_Or ignore it completely._

He rubbed his palms on the leg of his jeans trying to release some of his nervous energy. It was a good thing this street was usually abandoned. He probably looked like an addict or something. _Not that there’s anything wrong with that_ he thought absently. 

Another ten minutes passed. The streets were still empty.   
Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected. She had been the one to leave first. The ball was in her court, so to speak, he couldn’t will her to make her next move. It wasn’t up to him. She would have to reach out to him on her own time, or not at all. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. This realization was not comforting or reassuring but it was true. He would have to make peace with it. He got to his feet, took a long stretch to buy himself just a few moments of waiting and then headed back home.

When he opened the door to his building, he had to blink several times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. His brain scrambled to make sense of what he was seeing. Hermione. In her pajamas, clutching her jacket to her chest, her eyes filled to the brim with tears. 

“Hermione,” he said dumbly. Her brows furrowed in confusion. It was clear she also was struggling to process.

“Where were you?” she asked, her voice on the verge of breaking. 

Harry turned and looked behind him, bewildered. 

“I was waiting for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah I sent you a Patronus- I can make one now- I didn’t know how else to get ahold of you...I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Hermione let out the breath she had been holding. 

“What are you sorry for?” she asked quietly, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer. She didn’t want her fears confirmed. She felt too fragile. She wasn’t sure if she could survive it.

He looked at her, puzzled. He didn’t quite understand whatever was buzzing between them. 

“I don’t know exactly,” he said slowly. “But I’m afraid I upset you somehow and that was the last thing I ever wanted to do. Hermione, if I made you do something you didn’t want to do the other night, I’m so sorry.”

Hermione blinked and a few tears escaped, sliding down her cheeks. She shook her head but she couldn’t quite find the strength to speak. Her voice felt too far away. Instead, she reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it gently. The need to reassure him that he didn’t do anything wrong was so strong it overpowered the lump in her throat.

“You didn’t,” she croaked out, shaking her head. She took a step closer, pulling their hands up between them, resting them on her chest above her pounding heart. “I wanted it. I just….I’m just….”

She searched his face. No matter what doubts and insecurities she harbored, there was no denying the hopefulness in his face. He cared about her. 

“Scared,” she said at last, with a little shrug. It was hard to admit, but it felt good to say it outloud. She’d gotten so used to bottling her feelings up deep inside herself that she had forgotten what it felt like to unload. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t want to lose you again.”

Harry looked down at their clasped hands. He could feel her heart beating under the back of his hand. He wanted to lift her hand to his mouth and kiss her knuckles and promise her that everything would be fine forever. He wanted to promise her a future where everything was beautiful and nothing bad or sad or lonely would happen ever again. A younger Harry might have done so. Instead he met her eyes and gave her a small smile.

“I don’t want to lose you again either. If you just want to be friends, I could do that.”

Hermione bit her lip. She knew that if she had to, she could be his friend again. They could fall into their familiar patterns, and find comfort in each other the way friends do. But she could still feel the way their bare skin felt when it touched- electric and dangerous but so incredibly right. She could still taste the whisky on his breath and just thinking about it sent a shock of longing through her system. 

Harry watched her gaze drift to his mouth. For a moment it seemed as though he had accidentally used legilimency to read her mind. He knew exactly what she was thinking and it made him blush.

“I think...I think we were never _just_ friends,” she said, looking back up at him. “I don’t think it’s like this for other friends, I mean.”

Harry’s pulse quickened. He nodded. 

“I know.”

Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen and Hermione didn’t want to waste any more time. She leaned in, making her intentions clear, her lips parting slightly. She left some space, an opportunity for Harry to decide if he wanted to do this or not. But to Harry, there wasn’t anything to decide. He leaned in, and kissed her. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen, but they were going to be together when it did.


	10. Epilogue

**Six Months Later**

Every morning the alarm goes off at the same time. 7:00 am. Hermione then stumbles groggily out of bed and into the kitchen where the coffee is already brewing. The coffeemaker’s automatic timer is not magic but most mornings it feels that way. She pours herself a cup and drinks it standing. She likes to sip on it and look out the window and watch the birds as they chirp in the trees. By the time she finishes her coffee, she is adjusted to the idea of being awake and she gets out a second cup. She fills it up and adds a dash of cream and a dash of sugar and then takes it into the bedroom. She sets the cup on Harry’s side of the bed and kisses his forehead to wake him. This is their routine. 

He smiles dreamily. Sometimes he pulls her down and kisses her and cuddles her and begs her to come back to bed. But mostly he thanks her and sits up, sipping the coffee gratefully. 

Today is Saturday. Harry does not have to work at the Ministry today. He was still in the Muggle Artefacts department, however, he had recently heard a rumor that there might be a need for a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts as the current professor has been offered a more exciting career at Gringrotts. Harry is surprised at how often he daydreams about getting the job. When he told Hermione about it, she was very insistent that he apply. There’s never been anyone in his life who has ever believed in him quite so much as Hermione has.   
The day before had been Hermione’s last day as a caretaker. Monday morning she will start her new job at Flourish and Botts. She will be responsible for selecting new books and keeping classics in stock. She has started reading again. Only an hour or so at a time, slow and steady. She carries her wand even when she doesn’t plan to use it. She is learning not to punish herself. She is learning how to give herself grace. It’s amazing what she can accomplish with the proper support, the proper encouragement. 

“What’s on the schedule today, boss?” Harry asks. 

Hermione sits on the bed and moves his hair off his forehead. 

“I love it when you call me that,” she replies. They laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
